


Reversion

by oceansinmychest



Category: The Walking Dead (Telltale Video Game)
Genre: Burials, Canonical Character Death, Coping, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, Mild Language, One Shot, Past Tense, Present Tense, Returning to the Dairy Farm, Returning to the Unknown, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24781525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Lilly searches for closure by reliving the nightmare endured at the St, John’s Dairy Farm. Years later, it's time to bury the dead. Everything comes full circle.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Reversion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moose Friend (Taylor)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Moose+Friend+%28Taylor%29).



> After S1, I like to imagine that Lilly returns to the St. John’s Dairy Farm not only for supplies, but to find closure after the events that transpired in episode two, “Starved for Help.” The piece intentionally fluctuates between past and present test due to memories resurfacing. 
> 
> This fic is dedicated to a dear friend of mine, Taylor, whom I met through TWDG fandom back in the day! Taylor has been a positive source of encouragement and has helped me grow as a writer. I’m thankful for her influence within my life. Plus, she just finished her Master’s and I couldn’t be prouder! Congrats to you, fam! You so deserve it. Please enjoy this little token of my generosity. I hope we cross paths soon up north once more. 😊 All the hugs, my moosey friend. x

The merciless road runs you down, wears you out. Wandering from place to place prior to joining Delta, no shelter is deemed safe enough for Lilly Caul. Driven to extremes, resourcefulness has gotten her this far. With her supplies rapidly dwindling, this outlook ain’t shining gold. Although tragedy lets her bones wither and rot, all this running tightens the muscles in her thighs as an grenade of a woman ticking after all this time.

The soles to her combat boots begin to lift from frequent use and traction. Even her eyelids burn, as if affected by soot or some other irritant, when it’s just dust and residue which makes her sniffle. One bent knuckle rubs at her creased brow. Hell, it’s tiring to be alive.

With the sun overcast, every shifting shadow resembles the perfect stranger. Paranoia keeps her alert yet tense, all her joints stiffen and lock. She moves at an affordable pace – neither too slow nor too fast – in her faded army fatigues looted from a corpse she never knew. 

In the woods, the teeth of an old snare glare menacingly. In the grass, she spies bone bleached white. Animal or human, she doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t need to know.

Like clockwork, she returns to a familiar haunting ground that disturbs her fitful bouts of sleep. Back when she was in a group, before she was left on the side of the road rather than taking control of that RV, she finds herself on the Devil’s playground again. The rusted barbed wire fence surrounding the enclosure has since collapsed.

Why go back? It’s just not rational.

Lilly shakes her head after a cantankerous snort.

Well, starvation bred desperation – it did then and it does now.

There exists a strange dissonance with the landscape she spent long, grueling hours on. Shadows contort themselves into agonizing shapes, branches twist, trees fall and don’t make a sound. She revisits the St. John Dairy farm not only in her nightmares, but to gain closure.

In the distance, a walker shambles along. She saves her bullet rather than playing the part of executioner again. Still, her trigger finger crooks. She’s gotten more jumpy over the years despite her cool calculations in this game of endurance.

She remembers like yesterday - an infuriating phrase she borrowed from her father – how the dairy farm had appeared to be a peaceful homestead. The St. John family had seemed like lovely, normal folk though their kindness was a ruse. What an error in judgment she made. 

It’s raining again like that fatal night. Her jacket, saddled by frayed fabric, and holes, threatens to become sodden. The fabric grows damp, uncomfortable, and she feels the chill from deep within. Lilly would rather brave the storm than seek shelter at this hellhole.

Wooden posts have succumbed to rot, the barbed wire for the electric fence remains collapsed. The generator lay in a rusted pile.

Surrounded by decay and filth, her anger manifests as a slow, burning poison. Embittered and haunted from the residual trauma of loss, she wears the worn, faded patches of a dead woman.

Shades of violent violet hang beneath her eyes. She stands on the weathered gazebo and recalls how her father remained by her side when Lee strolled up to her. Planks groan beneath her weighted step. There’s a trace of mold seeping through. She grips the railing until a warped piece of wood crushes within her hand. In this dustbowl wasteland, she’s chewed her nails down to the quick.

_What the fuck happened to me?_

After taking a moment to recollect herself, she abandons the gazebo in favor of the homestead. Her polished rifle slumbers peacefully while slung over her shoulder. Gazing upon the collapsed swing-set, she wonders whatever happened to darling Clementine. Faintly, Lilly recalls Lee and Kenny pushing Duck and Clem on the swing, their laughter a beacon of hope for a moment of calm before shit hit the fan.

Over the unkind years, Lilly has soured. Having looked death in the eye, it’s getting harder to be a better person. Being alone serves as some warped penance. Has she simply succumbed to American darkness? 

Beneath her calculated step, the porch creaks. Inside, the gaudy striped wallpaper collects water stains in between scraps that have begun to peel away. The ratty curtains billow and threaten to combust. The house of horrors has been raided, looted, picked clean, and subsequently neglected. Dust and dirt cake the floors, the furniture. Exploring the foundation, stress causes her to clamp down on the inside of her cheek, so hard until she feels _something_ – until it hurts, until it bleeds. Lilly swallows her bitterness and her burden.

She finds a lighter in one of the kitchen drawers and grabs the can opener for safe keeping. It’s slightly corroded, but ought to do the trick.

She meanders through the dining room, pausing for a moment. At the dinner table, she grabbed for the knife upon Lee’s command. She recalls Andy St. John’s steady hold on the handgun and the cold, challenging stare of Danny St. John as he brandished the rifle. 

Lilly finds no need to venture upstairs. Instead, she lingers at the bottom, chest heavy and saddled with inner conflict. Poor Mark deserved better. 

Mark managed to crawl down those stairs, winded, but dying all the same. She knew it, recognized death in his eyes and wished she had granted him some small act of mercy before turning into a walker.

Christ, Mark really hadn’t deserved his fate. The taste of human flesh and its rotten reminder summons a fresh wave of nausea. Lilly lurches forward and spills the small meal she had earlier in the day. Her silhouette projected against the wall laughs at her, mocks her. Swallowing the last of her bile, she wipes at her mouth with a loose, shaky fist – doomed to repeat the past. Caved under the pressure, she should have been more careful, she should have been alert. Hunger cost them everything.

Those sick _fucks_ ; did they really have to go to that extent for survival? In all her time on the road, she refused to succumb to... to that. 

Disgruntled, she storms out of the house and leaves the door ajar in the wake of her actions.

As Lilly approaches the dilapidated barn, her throat tightens. The remnants of the barn unearth unrest, disgust, and feelings left to rot. The x’s adorning the dual doors serve as some sort of omen she neglected long ago.

Why did she do this? Why did she come back?

Either from stress or as a natural defense, her shoulders shoot up a mile higher. It takes every ounce of restraint to pull them back down to a reasonable level. Beyond deep-rooted melancholy, her hyperventilating simmers down. She chews on her lip until it’s chapped, raw, and swollen.

On guard, she enters the barn and searches through the unoccupied stables. She studies the remnants of the tool room-cum-torture chamber. Old blood stains. Rusted licenses plates remain pinned above the door. The awards for the prized farm hang above rancid preservatives. The chewy, gritty taste of tainted meat haunts her. Shivering, she rubs at her sinewy arms. No matter how many layers she wears, she still runs cold despite being so hot-blooded. Stress damn near welds her jaw shut.

Deeper within Bluebeard’s bloody chamber, the meat locker contains the stains of time. Stacks upon stacks of saltlicks remain. Treading across metal, her boots clang against the floor’s grating. Warped pallets lay huddled in a corner. The AC unit snores in a wounded heap.

Trust doesn’t come easy in a shattered world. That asshole Kenny fucked up everything good they had. She plays the blame game.

Was anyone on her side to begin with?

Yes, the good part (what’s left of it) reminds her of that fact.

Lilly squeezes her eyes shut to will the stinging sensation away. Ragged nails rake across her scalp and oily locks which she cut to a ragged length above her shoulder. Showers are a goddamn luxury. Her teeth drag across her torn lip to exfoliate her skin unnecessarily. 

Would it have been easier to have a confidant? An ally to lay a hand upon her shoulder? She isn’t sure. She’s been alone for so long, too long.

Shuddering, her shoulders stiffen a little more. Not the praying kind, Lilly lets out a frustrated cry of anguish. Her hand rests upon the wall, as if she’s searching for a pulse or steady beat.

Years ago, Larry Caul worked himself up into a sweat, succumbing to rage and high blood pressure alike. His heart couldn’t take it. He always proved to be a stubborn old man. At least she knew where her raw grit and determination came from. 

She remembers how Dad clutched his chest, worked himself up into a tizzy, and collapsed on the floor. How he stopped breathing temporary. How Kenny and Lee presumed her father to be dead. How they thought that they did her some miraculous favor.

Where did all that quarreling get her? Could she have ever gotten along with such a volatile temperament like Kenny’s? No, fuck that bastard. He killed her father. She could have _saved_ him.

Her faith in others has long since dwindled. 

“He wasn’t dead,” she whispers.

A few more determined compressions could’ve brought him back. Could’ve saved him.

Damn memories still nag at the recesses of her mind. She remembers kneeling on the floor, her hands clamped together trying to get her volatile dad’s heart to start pumping again. She checked his pulse, went through the motions of basic first aid until Kenny dropped that fucking saltlick on his head. Covered in blood and brain matter, she shuddered, her hands still on his chest before she broke down sobbing. She didn’t have enough time to grieve, enough time to give him a proper burial, enough time to say goodbye, and tell Dad that she loved him.

Kneeling, her calloused hands drag across her face. Kenny had put her father down as if he was a dog. A whimper tightens her throat. The levee breaks, Lilly sobs uncontrollable, racked by her guilt and her loss.

“Fuck,” she mumbles while wiping away the snot, tears, and dirt from her face.

It’s exhausting to stand tall, to remain strong, just to survive. A shadow of the scared little girl she used to be shines through.

“I’m so sorry, Daddy.”

This is the type of grief you try to swallow, only to choke on. Her fingertips brush across desecrated ground.

Fuck, she can’t keep anyone safe. Can she?

_Pull yourself together, Lil._

Sniffling, she dwells on a fonder recollection from girlhood. As a child, her father worked on airplanes. He came home and sat her atop his broad, proud shoulders. Perched there, laughing under the sun, it was the happiest she had ever been. Mere memory summons a small, broken smile with teeth; huddled on the floor she resembles a wild thing.

Lilly airs her grievances. She kisses her fingertips before caressing the stained ground. For a few spared seconds, her eyes remain shut. Inhale, exhale. She forces herself to take greedy gulps.

Her upper lip twitches. She craves a minor indulgence bent on becoming a habit. The crushed cigarette box rests within her breast pocket along with the neon pink lighter. She won’t waste the fuel.

She wanted blood. A part of her still does. 

The past fluctuates between murky and vivid. Standing, she leaves this cursed room behind.

Rage and anguish caused her to attack Danny with the sickle. Thinking about her collective, she intervened to save Lee and Kenny although it was mostly towards Lee for the compassion he shared. She vowed to keep Clementine safe. Failed at that too.

Blood-soaked, she emerged from the barn with Clementine clinging to her leg. She shot Andy – that smug fucker – in the shoulder. She wanted to inflict further violence, though held off, mercy a small virtue in a world gone mad. Thank God she did.

Andy St. John lost his family that night too. Lee spared his life after a few solid punches. She wondered what became of him. Wondering got you in trouble. 

In a single night, so many lives were ruined.

She finds herself numb again – an automaton going through the motions of what she deems to be right. 

Having found a shovel in the shed, she gets to digging by the gazebo. Buries what’s left of her father. Back and forth, she goes and fights back the urge to spit at the St. John's hell house. She carries Dad's bones though she wishes she could bring him home. He's lighter than she remembers and fuck, she remembers how tall he used to be. She lived in his shadow. Sure, they had their disagreements though they loved each other. She gives a eulogy that sounds hollow so she internalizes it. Even musters a salute for his years of service. Her body grows rigid, statuesque. Mud tarnishes her worn outfit, her boots, her hands. She doesn’t want to attribute the bones and decay to a man so full of vitality on one hand and bitterness on the other. Her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth, her hands scraped from the rough handle of the shovel.

"Mom missed you, Dad," she croaks, voice strained, becoming the lost, little girl Carley accused her of being.

She _hadn't_ meant to pull that trigger. 

Out of apologies, she rests her foot atop the curve of the spade, her palm coasting along her forehead which perspires. She keeps his coin in her pocket as a lucky emblem. It takes her hours, but the work is genuine, honest, and heartfelt. Running on empty, Lilly’s run out of tears. She resembles a corpse herself, dragging along, moving on, though not entirely.

These days, she’s hollowed out, ready to be wound up as a toy soldier for Delta.

The rain dies down, a persistent drizzle that leaves her skin clammy. With one last deep breath, she leaves the dairy farm behind her. There’s nothing left save for corpses. Too many ghosts teem behind her as relics of the past, forgotten and rotten, to accompany the vestiges of who she used to be.


End file.
